


Lost and Found

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:50:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6470587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos has a hard time getting past his feelings of abandonment and betrayal when Aramis returns to them after four years. Perhaps things will never be the same... A reconciliation of sorts. Speculation for the season 3 premiere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> After a discussion with JackFan2, I began to wonder how to resolve the situation if, in fact, Aramis did not go to war with the others. How could that be reconciled with the character I’ve come to know and love? This is my explanation. I have not seen the premiere for season 3, so it will probably become AU after the fact, but for now, this is something I can live with. Thanks to JackFan2 for the bits of info and as always, to my amazing beta Sharlot who consistently makes these stories better and makes me look good. ☺

**Lost and Found**

Athos dropped the quill on his desk as a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Come,” he called, settling into the high-backed chair, disregarding the paperwork as he watched his visitor enter the room.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been expecting the visit, he was just surprised it had taken their wayward priest this long to darken his doorstep.

Aramis was hesitant as he entered, moving with an odd uncertainty that was disconcerting coming from the normally poised marksman.

“If this is a bad time…” his voice faded off, but the disturbing diffidence remained.

Athos motioned for him to take a seat. “Please,” he smiled, hoping to alleviate his friend’s concern. “I appreciate the interruption.” He waved a hand over the mass of scrolls adorning his desk. “If I had known the ungodly amount of paperwork the position required, I would never have consented to taking it.”

“The regiment would be worse for it.” Aramis chuckled, a hint of the familiar lilt in his voice.

Athos rolled his eyes and waited for the other man to sink into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. 

Resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, Aramis folded his hands together in a tight grip and bowed his head. Athos could not readily read his expression, and the uneasy silence soon became weighted.

“Aramis?” he finally prompted, hoping it was enough to get his friend to explain why he had made his way to the office this late at night.

Aramis cleared his throat, a weak smile playing on his lips. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly without uttering a word. He squeezed his eyes closed, dropping his head once more and taking a long breath through his nose.

The Captain leaned forward, frowning at the open distress he could see in the marksman’s tense frame. He knew the decision to return with them to Paris, to return to the regiment, had not been easy. And being summoned to the Palace earlier today, being forced to stand at attention while presented with the now four-year-old Dauphin for the first time, had to have been excruciating. Though impressed with Aramis’ ability to keep the turmoil he must have been feeling from showing on his face, Athos had found the scene difficult to watch. Knowing the boy’s true paternity, he could only imagine how much harder it had been for the man who would never be able to claim the boy as his own.

“Aramis?” 

The marksman nodded and took a deep breath, raising his head to finally meet Athos’ gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he offered with a tight smile. “I thought this would be easier.”

Athos sat back, studying his friend. “No one expects any of this to be easy.”

Aramis laughed, a small, fragile sound that made Athos’ chest tighten. “No, I suppose not.” He shook his head, his eyes losing focus for a moment. “I just thought… I hoped…” He sighed, closing his eyes, the dark circles stark under the fluttering lashes. His hair was still longer than Athos could remember him wearing it since Savoy, tied back with a cord, the added length making his face look thinner, more angular. Aramis had always been muscular in a wiry, lean kind of way, and Athos couldn’t help but notice the way his heavy leather doublet swam on his frame, accentuating the loss of weight and muscle four years in the monastery had inflicted on his friend.

After a few moments, Aramis managed to compose himself and began to speak in a low, detached voice.

“I thought, after all that had happened, I would be able to return and find what I believed I had lost. What I had shamefully walked away from. But…” he shrugged and Athos’ breath caught in his throat at the sheer weight of the movement. Aramis paused again, his eyes studying his clasped hands as if trying to come to a decision.

Dread of what that decision could entail spurred Athos to speak.

“Aramis, why are you here?”

The marksman swallowed and looked up. “I thought things could go back to how they were. Before… before the Queen, before Rochefort, before…” he dropped his gaze again. “But it clearly cannot be as such. I was a fool for thinking it could.”

Athos sighed, but nodded, the movement lost on Aramis who continued to stare at his hands. The Captain remained silent, knowing his friend would get to his point in due time.

“I would like to be reassigned. Perhaps to the infantry.”

Athos felt his stomach drop.

“You want me to send you to the front?”

Aramis nodded firmly. “I know now I am not cut out to be a monk, but I don’t believe I can remain here either. This way I can find a purpose and perhaps still be of some use to my country. My musket skills are admittedly rusty, but I believe I could be of some use.”

“Even rusty, you are one of the best France has to offer,” Athos conceded. Aramis dipped his head in gratitude, but the compliment did not garner the usual smug grin. “But you are wrong if you believe you have anything to prove.” Athos assured him. “To me or anyone else.”

The dark eyes shuttered in denial of the words. “It seems not everyone would agree with you.”

So now they were getting to the truth of the matter. 

“Porthos will come around.”

The statement was met with a soft snort of disbelief.

Porthos, more than any of them, had grieved the loss of his friend. Even knowing Aramis was only a few days ride away, safely ensconced within the walls of the monastery, sheltered from the horrors of war, had not given the big Musketeer peace of mind. It was as if a part of Porthos had been ripped away by Aramis’ departure from their ranks, a fact that had, for a time, caused Athos’ anger at the marksman to overshadow his understanding and reasoning. It was something he was not proud of and he hoped Aramis would never learn of his fickleness in the face of Porthos’ – and his own – grief. 

“I don’t think Porthos will ever understand why I had to go.”

Since their return to Paris, Porthos had made it a point to show Aramis just how angry he was at the man’s perceived betrayal of all they held sacred. Athos and even d’Artagnan, showing a maturity beyond his years, had been able to see how hard a decision it had been for Aramis to stay away and honor the vow he had made. And it had been even more difficult to admit he’d been wrong and return to the place his self-recrimination had driven him from to begin with. 

Porthos was unable to see past his own pain for the moment, but Athos knew his sense of fairness would win out, his enduring fondness for the marksman eventually overcoming his anger. If only he would see how hard this estrangement was for all of them.

“He will,” Athos said with a confidence that was more hope than conviction. “It will just take time.”

Aramis nodded, his eyes shining, miserable. “If only I could make him understand…”

“He wrote to you,” Athos informed him.

Aramis blinked, his surprise obvious. “He did?”

“We all did. Even Treville. He sought to keep you informed as to our position in case you decided to return to us.”

Aramis’ jaw clenched. “I never received any of them.” He shook his head, perplexed. “Once I was released from solitude, I wrote to Treville, asking him to do just that, and to forward a letter to the three of you wherever you were, but I never received a reply.”

It was Athos turn to shake his head in confusion. “We never received yours, either.”

Aramis huffed a laugh. “The Abbot.” He drummed a fist against the wooden arm, his face twisted in exasperation. “I asked him to make sure the letters were sent. He more than likely kept yours from me as well.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

Aramis’ expression turned fond. “I believe he was trying to protect me from myself. Do not judge him too harshly. He was a good man, just… unknowing in the ways of a reality such as ours.”

Athos frowned, his understanding slow in coming, frustrated at the Abbot’s interference. “Then I suppose he did not inform you that we came to retrieve you only weeks after you had arrived?”

From Aramis’ wide-eyed look of shock, it was obvious he had not.

Athos sighed and rubbed a hand along the bridge of his nose. His mind raced, thinking of how different things could’ve been if only they had been able to speak with Aramis that day. He silently cursed the abbot for meddling in affairs he had no part in.

“We were told you were sequestered and nothing we said could persuade him to allow us access.” Athos chuckled humorlessly. “Perhaps he was protecting you, but I believe his safeguards caused more harm than good.” He returned his gaze to his friend. “Would you have come with us? If you had known?”

Aramis took a moment to consider his answer. “Yes.” He nodded, his eyes still lost, but his tone firm, resolute. “It would not have been an easy decision considering the turmoil my mind was in at the time, but yes, I would have returned to your side.” He smiled sadly. “I believed, when I heard nothing from any of you, that you had all managed to move on without me. That… the bond we had all shared was not as strong as I had believed.”

Athos’ chest tightened in response. “Not a day went by we did not think of you and wish you were with us. But knowing you were safe, away from the fight, eventually became something I was grateful for. If the worst happened, knowing one of us would survive somehow made it easier.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Aramis, you don’t have to apologize for following your conscience.”

The marksman shook his head. “I’m not. I think I had to leave to discover what truly mattered. But I am sorry for not being there to watch your backs. To fight alongside you.” He squared his shoulders and for the first time looked Athos straight in the eye, honest and unfettered. “And I am sorry for disappointing you. It is something I will regret for the rest of my life.”

Athos returned his gaze for a moment, before allowing his lips to tick up in a soft smile. “You have never disappointed me, Aramis. And you never will. But I accept your apology if only to give you peace of mind.”

Aramis’ grin held only a fraction of its normal light, but it was a welcome sight nonetheless. Athos pushed up from the chair and rounded the desk, crossing the small room to his doublet hanging on a hook near the door. He reached into the pocket and pulled out a key before returning to perch on the edge of the desk, directly in front of his friend.

“Here.” He held the key out, dropping it into Aramis’ outstretched hand. “I assume you no longer have your house in the city.” Aramis shook his head, another regret burdening his weighted shoulders. “Then go to my apartments. It is quiet and will give you time to think without all the disturbances of the garrison.”

Aramis stood, gracing the Captain with a nod of gratitude.

Athos reached forward and grasped the other man around the neck, pulling him close and planting a kiss on his bowed head. 

“We just got you back, Aramis. I have no intention of losing you again so soon. Not to God or France.” He drew back, pleased to see the smile adorning his friend’s face. “As I said, Porthos will come around. We both know he cannot stay angry with you for long.”

“Apparently, he’s out to prove us both wrong,” Aramis quipped, but there was no malice in the words, just a sad longing that Athos hoped never to hear in the marksman’s voice again.

“Go,” he ordered. “Get some rest. Things will look different in the morning.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos wiped his hands on the rag as he stepped out of the stables, breathing deeply, relishing the cool night air as it stung his throat and lungs. He’d forced d’Artagnan to return to Constance hours earlier, appreciating the young man’s company, but knowing he’d be much happier seeing the smiling face of his wife rather than Porthos’ own brooding countenance. Despite d’Artagnan’s attempts to raise his spirits, Porthos realized he didn’t want to be cheered, content to wallow in anger and self-pity for the time being.

So he’d sequestered himself in the stables, mucking the stalls, brushing down the horses, cleaning the saddles and harnesses until they shone like new. He’d managed to pass the evening without thinking of anything other than his work – for all the good it had done him.

For all the good it had done any of them.

He sighed, running the rag along the back of his neck, wiping away the sweat that had gathered from his labors. He thought the hard work would help alleviate some of the tension he’d been carrying since their return to the garrison. Despite his relief at being away from the fighting, he almost prayed for a return to the front lines, needing the activity to distract him from the turmoil that was currently clouding his thoughts, and the man who was centered like a bulls-eye directly in the middle.

A noise from his left alerted him to someone approaching and he melted into the shadows, not in the mood to speak with anyone, too spent to pretend to be anything but what he was.

Angry. Confused. Hurt.

So many other emotions were running through him, but those were the ones he could lay name to.

The figure came nearer and Porthos held his breath, easily recognizing the familiar gait, even though he’d only seen it in his memories for the last four years. Part of him wanted to call out, pull his old friend into an embrace, finally allow the tension that had been borne of his absence drain away. But another part, a more primal, wounded part wanted the man to know how much it had hurt to watch him walk away. To have him blatantly ignore his letters, to cut himself from Porthos’ life like he’d never existed at all.

It was that part that still wanted to punish Aramis. To make him feel the same pain he’d felt these last four years.

Luckily, Aramis didn’t come into the stables. He hesitated for a moment – almost as if he knew Porthos was cowering there in the shadows – but it was only a moment, and he quickly renewed his pace, slipping out under the archway and disappearing into the dark streets of Paris.

Porthos frowned as he stepped out of the shadows, his eyes following Aramis’ slumped form as he faded into the night. Slowly he turned, catching sight of Athos, standing just outside his open office door, the light spilling onto the raised walkway. The Captain of the Musketeers flicked his head toward the door and Porthos sighed, reluctantly acknowledging the silent summons with a curt nod.

Athos sat behind his desk waiting for him when he entered the sparsely furnished office. The officer leaned back in his chair, two glasses filled with what looked like brandy sitting atop the desk.

Athos waved a hand in invitation and Porthos dropped down into the opposite chair, downing the brandy in one gulp. As the liquid burned down his throat, he squeezed his eyes closed and settled back, unknowingly mirroring Aramis’ posture of just moments before.

“I sent him to my apartments,” Athos answered the unasked question. “I think he needed some… distance.”

Porthos snorted. “As if he hasn’t had enough of that.” The resentment in his voice surprised them both.

“He asked to be reassigned.”

Porthos suddenly went cold. “Reassigned?”

Athos nodded, his face as emotionless as always. “He wants to join the infantry. He believes his talents may be best used on the front lines.”

As angry as Porthos was, he had no desire to see Aramis face any of the horrors of war they had been subjected to for the last four years. If he was honest with himself, he knew Aramis had already seen and dealt with enough death and destruction to last a lifetime. Relief that his friend had not been forced to witness what they had during the war was slowly beginning to worm its way into his heart.

“He’s an idiot,” Porthos mumbled without much heat.

Athos smiled. “Yes, but he’s our idiot.” He tilted his head, amused as he watched Porthos pout like a petulant child. “How much longer do you intend to punish him?”

Porthos sighed and sank into the chair. He shrugged, not actually having an answer. He wished he could welcome Aramis back into the fold with open arms like Athos and d’Artagnan apparently had, but he just couldn’t. He had no idea what was wrong with him. Perhaps he was just too close to be objective. Somewhere along the line, he’d taken Aramis’ leaving as a personal slight even though he knew it had never been intended as such. But he couldn’t deny he’d felt hurt, betrayed even. Since the marksman had returned with them, just the sight of him had Porthos’ temper flaring. He’d taken to avoiding him in order to alleviate some of the tension he was at a loss to control. 

He knew in his heart Aramis had not done it to hurt him – his friend would never be so cruel. He’d even figured out – eventually – that it was more to punish himself for everything that had happened with the Queen and Rochefort. His guilt had pushed him away, searching for forgiveness from a God he believed needed him to pay a harsh penance for his perceived sins. 

Porthos’ problem was getting his head to listen to his heart.

“Porthos,” Athos began, his tone fond as if he were speaking to a recalcitrant child. “Do you wish to lose him again?”

Did he? Would it just be easier to push Aramis away while he was still angry and deny the need to have his friend back in his life?

Because that need was there, a burning, churning pit in his stomach. It had been there, small and aching since the day Aramis had walked away, and it had grown into a fiery blaze, darkening memories and consuming hope with a frightening intensity Porthos had been unable to quell. Would it be better to never lay eyes on him again? To never hear his laugh or exchange an entire conversation in a glance? To never feel the thrill of knowing the man at your back would take a bullet for you without regret? Of knowing you would do the same without hesitation? He had that same rapport with Athos and d’Artagnan, but there was something else, something… more… that had always pulled him toward Aramis. Could he live without that for the rest of his life?

“No.”

Athos nodded at the conviction in the answer, relieved. “Then talk to him. Resolve this. It is doing no good for either of you or the regiment to let this fester.”

Porthos let his head fall back to hit the back of the chair, his eyes searching the ceiling as if the answer to the problem were written above.

“How? I just get so angry when I look at him.” He raised his head, his eyes beseeching. “I can’t understand how he could have just cut us out of his life so easily. How could he have done that?”

“Did you ever consider that he was asking the same of us?”

Porthos frowned, defensive. “What? We wrote him. You, me, d’Artagnan. We even went to Douai to bring him back! And we got nothing! Nothing in return! No letters, no word. He didn’t even answer Treville!”

“He never knew.”

The softly spoke words were enough to stop Porthos’ rant.

Athos sighed, his eyes distressed. “He never received the letters. The Abbot, in a misguided attempt to help him, never even informed him of our visit. He never knew.” He let the words hover in the air, and in the face of the truth, Porthos’ anger dissipated as quickly as it had risen. “He never knew, Porthos. He believed we forgot him as easily as we thought he’d abandoned us.”

“Damn.”

“Exactly.”

Porthos slumped in his chair, his eyes unfocused, letting the injustice of it all settle in his gut. If it was true, if Aramis had never even known how much they needed him, how could Porthos have expected him to find his way back? He would’ve continued to believe they were better off, hiding himself away in order to protect them all. He tried to reconcile the smiling, social man he knew to the life of a quiet, lonely monk. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

“He was alone,” he finally said, identifying the one thing he knew would’ve been nearly unbearable for his friend.

Athos nodded solemnly. “We still had each other, but yes, Aramis was alone. And I don’t for a moment believe that it was what he truly wanted.”

“Then why did we let him go?” If it had been up to Porthos, he would’ve dragged him back to the garrison and talked some sense into him before he’d ever had the chance to leave.

It was Athos turn to shrug. “He needed to find out for himself. Atone for his sins. Though I admit, if I had known it would take four years, I would’ve barged into that monastery, tied him up and thrown him over a horse myself.”

Porthos chuckled. “I would’ve paid to see that.” He sobered instantly. “What do we do now? Does he seriously think he’d be better off in the infantry?”

“I doubt it, but he’s floundering, Porthos, grasping at anything to stay afloat. We let him go once, believing that was what he wanted. I think we need to let him know we want him to stay this time, or I fear we will lose him for good.”

“He went to your apartments, you say?”

Athos nodded, hopeful. 

“Is there wine there?”

The Captain simply rolled his eyes.

Porthos’ chuckle was warm, familiar, and felt more genuine than it had in a long while. “Then I guess I’d better go have that talk.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Despite Athos’ assurance he’d sent Aramis off to his apartments in the city, Porthos’ repeated knocks went unanswered. It was possible that Aramis was ignoring the summons, simply not wishing for company this night, but the dark windows told Porthos that he was either asleep or not where he was supposed to be.

Believing the latter to be more probable, Porthos began checking the near-by taverns, hoping to find the wayward marksman while he was still inclined to talk.

It was within the third establishment he visited that he located his quarry ensconced in dark corner, head bowed over a mug of ale. He could tell Aramis had drank very little of the amber liquid, his eyes staring down on the scarred tabletop, unfocused and unaware. Porthos pushed his way through the throng of revelers and plopped himself down in the chair on the opposite side of the table.

While Aramis didn’t seem surprised to see him, his eyes were wary, obviously unsure of what could bring his old friend to seek him out.

“Didn’t think you liked ale,” Porthos tipped his chin toward the mug held tightly within Aramis’ grip.

“I don’t.”

“That explains why it’s still full.”

Aramis looked down, subtle surprise registering on his face. “Perhaps so.”

Porthos grunted in amusement before looking around, motioning for the serving girl to bring him a bottle of wine and two cups.

“I thought you were going to Athos’.”

The inquiry was met with a shrug, the marksman keeping his eyes carefully trained on the table in front of him, a finger tracing a pattern on the rough wood.

“Perhaps that would be a better place to talk?”

“You want to talk?” Aramis laughed, hollow. He took a gulp of the ale. “We’ve been back in Paris for days, Porthos, and you’ve not said two words to me. And now, suddenly, you want to talk?” The words were delivered smoothly, but there was an underlying challenge to his tone.

Porthos shrugged, dropping his gaze, shying from the confrontation, relieved to see a hint of the old Aramis surface. “I know. And it wasn’t fair. It’s just…”

“You’re hurt.” Aramis sighed. “And angry. And I can’t find it in myself to blame you. I apologize for my outburst.”

The serving girl arrived with the wine and Porthos took a moment to collect himself as he poured the dark liquid into the two cups. He pushed one across the table, taking the time to study his friend, noting for the first time how pale and thin he looked. Maybe Athos was right. Maybe all this had been as hard on Aramis as it had been on them.

Porthos took a sip and leaned back in the chair. “You have nothin’ to be sorry for.”

Aramis eyes dropped back to the table, the momentary spark extinguished. “I abandoned you.” Self-recrimination dripped from his voice and Porthos found he hated the sound of it.

“You followed your heart.”

Aramis shook his head. “I followed my conscience. My heart was always elsewhere.”

“With the Queen and the Dauphin.” Porthos assumed.

Aramis licked his lips, his head bowed. “And with the three of you.”

The confession caught Porthos off guard and it took a long minute to regain his composure.

“We came after you.”

Aramis took a sip of the wine, swallowed. “Athos told me.”

“You really didn’t know?”

“I was sequestered,” he explained, his voice tired as if sleep had become something unattainable, the dark circles under his dull eyes doing little to dispel the notion. “It is unheard of to break that solace. The Abbot was only attempting to help me purge my demons. He believed seeing you would undo all the wisdom the monks were endeavoring to impart.”

“We were your demons?” 

“You were my salvation, but looks can be deceiving.” Aramis’ grin was hesitant and Porthos couldn’t help but return it, the familiar banter settling comfortably around them like a second skin.

“Would it have?” Porthos was forced to clarify when Aramis’ tilted his head in confusion. “Would seeing us have undone whatever the monks were trying to do?”

“Most likely.”

The answer was delivered with no hesitation, and even though it wasn’t an actual yes, Porthos felt a part of himself settle when he took it as such.

“Athos said you never got our letters. It seems the Abbot was thorough in his undertaking.”

Irritation flashed momentarily across Aramis’ face before he schooled his features, sighing in resignation. “I know the Abbot was doing what he thought was best, but…”

“Oi,” Porthos lamented. “A lot of misunderstandings could’ve been avoided if he’d just left well enough alone.”

Aramis met Porthos’ gaze and the bigger man could swear he saw a glint of yearning in the familiar dark eyes.

“Is that what this is, Porthos? A misunderstanding?” Aramis voice was pitched high with expectation. “Dare I hope you do not hate me for what I’ve done?”

Porthos suddenly realized he didn’t. As angry as he’d been, it had never truly been with Aramis, but with the situation and circumstances that had led him to make such a tragic decision. As tempting as it was to hold on to the ire, to remain aloof to protect himself, he knew he would not. Could not. He had let himself wallow in that outrage, that pain, for four long years, wondering if he would ever again have the chance to sit across from the man he had always considered his best friend, his brother…

And here he was, close enough to touch, close enough for Porthos to see the shine of remorse in his expressive eyes.

“I don’t hate you, Aramis,” he admitted, feeling the burning in his gut finally fizzle out. “I could never hate you.”

Aramis’ smile was a tiny, tremulous thing, but as far as Porthos was concerned, it lit up the room.

“I’ve already apologized to Athos, and I will apologize to d’Artagnan next, but I want you to know how sorry I am that I was not by your side all this time.”

Porthos’ chest still ached in regret for what had been lost, but this time the sorrow was tinged with hope for what could still be found. “As long as you can promise me it won’t happen again, I think I can live with it.”

_Finis_

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen the season 3 premiere yet, still patiently waiting, but wanted to pacify myself in the meantime. :) Writing is therapy.


End file.
